


Disbelief

by JadeRachelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Texting, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRachelle/pseuds/JadeRachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is in denial about Sherlock's death after the Fall. He sends him messages, hoping for a response. But is he delusional in thinking Sherlock survived or is the detective still around?<br/>Pretty much just one sided Jim ending in mutually accepted porn. To tie myself over while I finish my other fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disbelief

Surprise! JM

Don't tell me you actually jumped. JM

Well, I suppose if you had you wouldn't be able to say it... JM

Seen the headlines? Fake genius commits suicide. Well now, even if you faked the crimes you'd still be a genius. Aren't they rude? JM

I heard your Johnny boy got a job in Manchester. He's moving out of Baker. JM

Oh come on, I know you're not really dead. You're just ignoring me. JM

My patience is wearing thin Sherlock. JM

This town is boring without you. JM

Correction, this country is boring without you.

Took a trip to the states for business. This world is boring without you. JM

Flight home was dull. I would have hijacked the plane but what's the point if you won't stop me? JM

Took out a member of a royal family this morning. Boring without you. JM

My civil war in Albania went off without a hitch. Shame. I was hoping you'd step in. JM

Johns' engaged. Have you seen the thing he's with? Ridiculous. JM

Had a deal go down today. Spent the whole time wishing you would stop me. JM

I'm going mad. Swore I saw you at a Sainsburys in Surrey today. JM

Went to Vauxhall to seduce a new MI5 boy. He wore the same cologne as you. JM

Needless to say, I stopped the job because I couldn't stand it. JM

That's a compliment. JM

Got a new apartment. Moved in my piano today. You'd love her, grand baby. JM

Bored. JM

Stole an Andrei ikon today. You'd be proud of the plan. JM

Started smelling you in my flat. Had the place checked. Turns out I'm crazy. JM

Cancelled a job today because I thought you'd find it droll. Is it nice, being dead and still impacting on the criminal network? JM

Stripped my wallpaper, changed it to brocade. It's gorgeous. JM

Can no longer stand the brocade. Reminds me of Baker. I destroyed it. JM

Tv had a documentary on tonight. Guess the subject! Yeah, it was you. I now need a new telly. This one is full of bullets. JM

I hate you. JM

Found the clothes I wore as IT Jim. I burnt them. JM

I rigged up explosives at 221b the day Hudson left. Stop playing dead or I set them off. JM

Bye bye Baker. JM

Pissed on the rubble because I hate you. JM

I lied. I didn't. That would be undignified. JM

Bored. JM

Answer your fecking phone. JM

Getting real tired of this shit, Sherlock. JM

You're hiding well. None of my people can find you. JM

Come out, come out. JM

John had a stag party. I was there. He didn't recognize me. He was too pissed. He toasted to you and I punched the guy next to me. JM

Crime is dull without you to challenge me. JM

Mycrofts PA is shagging my chemist. JM

Why didn't you tell him? I had them both shot. JM

I know you're alive. I had your number checked. It's still active. JM

In France for the weekend. South. Silent toast to your dedication. JM

The wine is good. You should join me for a drink. JM

I overindulged and Moran drew on my face while I slept. This is your fault. JM

Haven't slept right in a week. Your fault. JM

When I see you next I'm going to smash your face in. JM

Had an insider at Johns wedding. His speech mentioned you. I poisoned my guy because it pissed me off. I hate you. JM

Valium tonight so I can finally sleep. Your fault. JM

Woke up smelling chlorine this morning. I hate you. JM

Moran deleted your number from my phone. Doesn't matter, I have it memorized. JM

Got a tip. JM

You were recently in Italy. JM

Got a snap shot of you on CCTV in Venice. You're getting sloppy. JM

Loving the blond by the way. JM

Put a job in motion that I think you'll like. JM

What do I have to do to get a fecking reply from you? JM

Wine and pasta. I should cook for you one day. Promise not to poison you. JM

If I ever see you again I'm going to strangle you with my bare hands. JM

I hate you. JM

Swore I saw you on the train in Sydney. Clearly mistaken because you could never afford Marc Jacobs. JM

I stopped by your apparent grave this morning. I kicked the headstone. JM

I wish you'd stop ignoring me. JM

I dreamt of you last night. JM [unsent]

I hate you. JM

This is boring. JM

Hope is boring. JM

I'm sorry to say Sherlock, I'm near the edge. JM

Sod it. You aren't worth the effort anymore. You've disappointed me. JM

I fecking hate you. JM [unsent]

Set up something you'd en[unsent]

Bored. JM [unsent]

Cold turkey is hard. How'd you do it with junk and ciga[unsent]

I think I've gone crazy. JM [unsent]

You jumped. I fell. JM [unsent]

Taking a hiatus. Don't have it in me anymore. You've spoiled m[unsent]

I hate you. JM

Two years, Sherlock. It has been two years. Aren't you sick of it yet? JM

Got a girl who swears she can pull off a heist under the Queens' nose. JM

No one stopped her. JM

Went to see the Falls of Reichanbach today. JM

I found a cat. JM

I'm keeping her. JM

Named her Sherly. JM

She sleeps at the foot of my bed. Like you should. JM

Moran asked if I wanted him to end it. He pointed his fecking gun at me and asked if I wanted an out. JM

I told him no, of course. JM

I have pneumonia. This is your fault. JM

Hospital food is the worst. Had Moran bring me chips and vinegar. JM

No smoking on hospital grounds. Couldn't help myself, I set the West carpark on fire. JM

They took me into custody and I told them I was HIV+ and they gave me a special room. Moran bailed me and now I'm sharing a lager with him at the local dive. JM

Caught you on film. Dublin, really? Say hi to Ma for me. You can't miss her, she's the bitch with her own gravitational pull. JM

I hate you. JM

Moran says this is unheathly. He says I'm trying to have a relationship with a dead man. But you're not dead. JM

And this isn't a relationship. JM

This is... Curiosity. JM

Called my sister yesterday. Asked around about you. Apparently you had it off with her fiancés brother in the Ozz. Naughty you. JM

I haven't had a shag since I started our game. Did you know that? JM

Got a gal in explosives who wants me. Might take her up on it. JM

Disgusting. You've ruined me for all other people. I hate you. JM

Discovered the wonders of alcohol. This is your fault. JM

I know you're in the country. Stop by for a drink. JM

Saw you on CCTV again. Tube to London. I fecking hate you. JM

You reached London at 4pm. I lost track of you. But I'm not giving up. JM

I hate you. JM

Wandering around the capitol in this horrid weather. Feel free to approach me if you see me. JM

Moran tried to pick me up and take me home. I told him I was waiting for someone and the look he gave me... It's like they all think I'm completely delusional. If you were REALLY dead, I think I'd know. But you're not. You're just waiting. Like me. JM

Got home and the memories that attacked me while I was alone drove me back to the streets and into the arms of Lady Liquor. JM

Do you remember that homeless girl, the blonde? The one that gave you the heads up about me and the cabbie? She's doing well now. She's working at the skive bar down near St. Barts. She remembered me. JM

I correct myself, she's not doing quite so well as to turn down cash for information. JM

Got the tube home and saw a girl with a pin button of a deerstalker attached to her school bag. Nicked it from her. JM

Home. Valium again. Hello restless sleep! JM

I know you were in my flat. I can fecking smell you. JM

I'd like my McQueen tie back. I know you took it. Get a job and buy your own you lazy sod. JM

No, seriously. I want my tie back. JM

Hiding in plain sight. You're watching me. I know it. Tie. Back. Now. JM

That Marc was a hundred quid. Either put it back in my fecking wardrobe or slip the money under the door. JM

Oh, aren't you fecking clever? Aye, a friggin I.O.U. note. Very funny. JM

Business as usual. Just because you're hanging about in the shadows doesn't mean I'll stop doing my job. JM

So you're here in London, watching me and you still didn't stop that 'gas leak'? What's wrong with you? JM

Formerly homeless girl coughed up, said you came in asking about me. She also said you paid her for the information. If you have the money for look outs then you have the money for a tie. Give mine back. JM

Don't bother paying off the girl, I had her taken out. Actually, I had the whole bar taken out. JM

That may have been a mistake on my part. I'll admit it. Now I've nowhere to drink. JM

You prick, you came into my apartment and washed my dishes? I hate you. JM

Apologies, apparently I did it last night while intoxicated. I still hate you though. JM

Off to the States again! JM

Thank fuck for bars in airports. JM

Red or white? Oh, I'll have the red. Reminds me of your fucking blood and how much I want to draw it. JM

Prick. JM

States are boring. Gangsters are awful. JM

Cannot wait to get home. My tie had better be put back. JM

Stop off at a pub. Nice to blend in with the other business men. Share a pint. Rattle on about deals and what not. JM

 

"Keep the change," he slurred as he threw a handful of tenners at the cabbie and slammed the door of the taxi.  
He felt his phone vibrate and poked at the buttons to answer the call.

"Jim," a familiar voice chastised in his ear, "Chip said he saw you down at that dive bar on Chapel. What the hell are you doing?"

Jim sighed and began the trek up the stairs to his flat.

"Moran, I'm a fucking grown man. I can stop off for a drink whenever I want. You're not my bloody mother."  
A tirade of angry lecturing came at him, an assassin trying to tell him that his choices were terrible? Morals? Problems? Fuck off. He listened without interrupting as his employee and... Friend? No, not friend, associate, reprimanded him. 

He reached his apartment and fumbled with the lock, still listening to Morans' speech. He shifted the phone so as to use both hands to push open the door.

"Look, I know you think you mean well but I'm not paying you to mother me. I'm paying you to pull a fucking trigger when I tell you to. I'm not in the mood to pander to your insane fucking notions tonight. I will call you when I need you." he spat into the speaker before promptly ending the call and collapsing on his sofa. 

He sighed and began to type out a text message. It had become a habit now. Unhealthy as he knew it was, he found it incredibly theraputic to tap out his thoughts and send them off to a supposed dead man. He stilled his fingers abruptly and raised the device above his head. He hurled it at the wall opposite him and grimaced as the screen shattered on impact.  
He let his head drop and he cradled it with both hands as he tried to settle the rage burning through him, heightened due to his consuption of alcohol while out earlier. He remained that way until he had existinguished the unpleasant emotion and returned to his usually cool state.

With a deep breath he raised himself from the sofa and steadied himself as the room spun around him. Wandering through the room to reach his personal ammenities, he shrugged off his clothing layer by layer, leaving it pooling in a trail of ostentatious brand names on the hardwood floor.

He stood, unstable, in the shower and turned the tap on, showering himself with hot water. He flinched at the heat but waited it out as his skin numbed itself against the onslaught of boiling water. He scrubbed at his body, his face, his hair, his scalp, replacing the would be scent of mediocrity he picked up while in public with the citrus smell of his body wash.  
The water ran cold before he stopped the flow and reached for his towel, dabbing the fabric against the droplets on his skin. He wrapped it around himself, hair still dripping as he made for his bedroom. 

He had just slipped on his favourite pajama pants and a worn grey tshirt when he smelt it. It was not his fragrance, not steam, not his body wash, not even the imaginary chlorine that had been plaguing his senses for months now. It was still familiar though. He inhaled deeply, casting a wary eye around his room. Grapefuit overtones, a hint of apple, is that what he thinks it is?

He grabbed his handgun from his computer desk and threw his damp towel onto his delicately made bed. He mustered his liquor induced courage and stepped out into the hallway, sauntering down into the living room.

As expected, a dark figure sat reclining on his sofa. He cocked his gun and pointed it at the intruder.

"If you haven't come to give me my tie I will kill you, Mr. Holmes," he whispered.

The other man chuckled and reached into his jacket, bringing out a sheath of silk in his closed fist.

"This?" he asked quietly, holding it up so that the fabric draped down and pooled on his thigh.

Jim cracked his neck and stepped forward, reaching for his sorely missed McQueen.

It was drawn back away from him as the stranger clutched it to his chest.

Jim snarled and raised the gun to the mans' face.

"I'm not in the mood for games. Give me the fecking tie and get out."

The man smirked, "but playing is what we do best."

Jim leant forwards, bent at the waist and placed his gun against the mans' temple. He looked straight into cold blue eyes, sharp as diamonds and whispered, "The game is over. We aren't versing each other anymore. It's over, Sherlock. You had the chance for another round but you chose the world over our puzzle, over our challenge, over me. You've had two years to pick up where we left off. You forfeited, you gave up in defeat you lanky prick."

Sherlock stared straight back, his lips tightening in what seemed like anger. He tipped his head to the right, the barrel of the gun shifted to trace his overly defined cheekbone.

"I never gave up. I never let myself fall into the slump that you allowed yourself to trip in. Tell me Jim, how does it feel knowing that the only thing that stops your insomnia and misery is alcohol and chemicals? You are fast becoming dependant. Even I managed to kick a habit like that. You're losing your grip..."

Jim smacked Sherlock across the face with the metal gun before dropping it to the floor and reaching for the former detectives' neck. He didn't struggle, simply let the hands hands wrap around his throat and press into his airway.

"I waited two fucking years. I have been alone for two years. With no challengers I have had two years to mull this over. When I finally give up you come crawling back for another go!?" he hissed, digging his nails into the sensitive skin on Sherlocks' neck. He felt Sherlocks' hand close around his left wrist but no pressure was applied. It was more of a request, and so he obliged, removing his hands and sinking into the sofa beside the other man, who struggled to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry," he rasped as he rubbed his throat, skin already reddened from the assault.

"What?" Jim asked as he crossed his legs, regaining his cool demeanor and turning to face him.

"I'm sorry for making you wait. I just wanted to be sure you were quite as dedicated as I."

Jim scoffed in disbelief, "dedicated? You absolute twat. From the second I saw you I have been dedicated and you knew that. You have known all along. I have spent a good portion of my fucking life dedicated to catching your attention. Dedicated... I cannot believe you."

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Jim.

"You lying sod, you took it up again and yet you come here to preach to me about habits and health." he said as he took one and placed it between his lips. He relaxed back into the cushions as he motioned for a light. Rather than handing the lighter over to the criminal, Sherlock gestured for him to lean fowards. He cupped his slender hands around the end of the tube of tobacco and flicked the zippo, igniting the cigarette for him before leaning back into his original position.

They sat and smoked in silence, staring ahead of them at the bare entertainment unit against the wall.

"I really am sorry, you know," he started.

Jim held up his hand to silence him, "don't fucking start. It's already hard enough trying to convince myself that you're actually here and I'm not hallucinating or still incredibly drunk. Do'not start throwing apologies and sentiment out there. It'll ruin my mind."

"How is your mind holding up? That was always what drew me to you."

Jim inhaled deeply, breathing out the smoke softly.

"Not my boyish charm and brilliant good looks?" he joked.

Sherlocks' mouth twitched, "not... Initially..."

"Well, Sherlock, my mind is slipping and I blame you. It's atrophied. No decent exercise for years. You're going to change that though, aren't you?" he asked, crushing his cigarette into the coffee table carelessly.

Sherlock didn't reply.

Jim felt anger bubble up inside him, "look, if you're not here to pick up where we left off and you're not here to give me back my belongings then what the hell do you want?" he snapped looking over at the detective.

"Would you believe I missed you?" he replied softly, still staring before him into nothingness.

Jim snarled, "if you ever missed me you would have responded to me. I tried drawing you out with crimes, I tried talking to you, I tried hunting you down, I even asked politely for you to join me for a drink. I haven't texted you in weeks. What makes you think I still want your attention?"

Sherlock finally looked over, locking eyes with the disgruntled man, "you didn't shoot me on sight." Jim opened his mouth to issue an excuse but was interrupted as Sherlock continued, "you had a gun to my head and didn't shoot, you had your hands around my throat and withdrew, I am at your mercy - believed dead - and you haven't made to kill me, you accepted a cigarette, you are still sitting beside me. You still need me."

"I hate you," Jim hissed leaning towards the other man.

"No, you hate that I seemed to not need you. You hate that you became dependant. You hate that you were alone. You hate the circumstances, the neglect, the idea that you were back to square one. But no, Jim, you don't hate me."

"You're wrong," Jim said barely above a whisper, "you're so wrong and you don't even know it." he raised a hand and grabbed a handful of the blond dyed locks at Sherlocks' nape. He held the hair in a vicelike grip and tugged the detective closer, their faces barely a few inches from each other, "you listen to me and you listen very fecking carefully you overconfident prick" he murmured, eyes darker than ever and glaring despite the dim light of the sitting room, "I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. I despise you with every bone and scrap of skin in my body. I hate your mind because you waste it. I hate your face because you underestimate it. I hate your eyes because you don't use them. I hate your body because you abuse it. I hate your intelligence because you dim it. I hate your humour because you hide it. And I hate your heart because I can't have it. I. Fucking. Hate. You."

He could practically see the ancient clues planted long ago brush the dust off themselves and fit together. He watched as comprehension dawned on Sherlocks' face, the pieces fitting together to prove new theories, new facts.

He counted to three in his mind, allowing the detective time to consume the new knowledge thrown at him and giving him the chance to pull away, to speak, to fight, to pick up the abandoned gun and shoot him but he did nothing. Jim mentally rolled his eyes and called on the remnants of liquid courage in his veins to make his move.

He pushed himself forward, closing the space between their faces and pressed his lips hard against the stilled detective. He felt him stiffen but pushed harder, trying to procure a response. When none appeared forthcoming he broke the contact and looked at the man blankly. He felt himself sink as he realized what he had just done. How ridiculous he had been, he swore to himself to ask Moran for the out again because how could he face the world with this looming over him? What if the detective returned to the world and spoke of this? Horror flashed through him and he mentally berated himself for being so incredibly, humanly stupid. 

A flicker of movement drew his attention and stopped his thoughts. He watched warily as Sherlocks' tongue flicked out and ran across his lips slowly. A smile twitched at the mouth and the eyes suddenly lit up.

Throwing caution away, Jim dived forwards again, taking it as an invitiation. 

He tilted his head and smashed his lips against Sherlocks', still damp from his saliva. He urged himself forward and ran his tongue over the closed mouth against him. It opened as if the gesture had been a password and he plunged into the warm depth. His hands moved to grip Sherlocks' shoulders, pressure applied heavily and fingers digging into the skin through the fabric of his coat.

He tugged at the jacket persistantly, pulling it off and throwing it to the ground before letting his fingers rest on the now unobscured pulse point of Sherlocks' neck. He counted the movements while tasting all recesses of the detectives mouth, tongue lapping at the gums, the palate, the frenulum and running over straight, hard teeth. Evidence of arousal was obvious from the thrum of Sherlocks' pulse and the clenching and unclenching of his fists as he struggled to keep his hands still. Jim reached down and grabbed both wrists deftly with his right hand, holding them tight while his left reached for the buttons of the mans' shirt.

He struggled, fingers still partially numb from the alcohol, to unbutton the article. Impatience won out in a matter of seconds and he tore apart the shirt, buttons springing loose and clattering to the floor to lay forgotten. He let his hand slide over the bared skin as he nipped at Sherlocks' lower lip, causing a soft groan to be whispered into his mouth. He brushed his fingertips over a peaked nipple and pinched hard. Sherlock bucked against him and Jim drew away. In one fluid motion he was on his feet, the abandoned gun in hand, pointed at Sherlocks' flushed face. He could feel himself straining against his silken pajamas. He licked his lips, "get up!" he barked, gun trembling in his hand as he tried to steady himself, "bedroom. Go."

Sherlock showed no signs of fear although he did hesitate for a brief moment before getting up and brushing past the armed criminal.

Jim scowled, of course the twat knew the way to his bedroom. He had been in here before, for all he knew he could have been here while he slept. There was no telling how many times the estranged consultant had padded through his personal residence, how many times he had touched his belongings, how many times he had stalked through the hall and watched Jim in his own home. The thought disgusted him, made him taste bitter regret as he relived the worst and most oblivious months of his life.  
He stepped widely to catch up, sticking his gun into the small of Sherlocks' back in order to bring back the upper hand to himself. They reached Jims' bedroom, Sherlock entering first. Jim slammed the door behind him and placed the gun casually back on to his desk. 

He stepped towards the detective and drank in the sight of it. Sherlock Holmes, here, naked from the waist up and presumed dead by the world. He could trap him here, have him all to himself. He could retire happy, with Sherlock here by his side, most likely tethered because god knows he would never agree to willingly stay by him of his own accord.

Shaking his head minutely to rid himself of any thoughts not pertaining to the situation at hand, he lifted himself onto the balls of his feet and resumed kissing the infuriating man.

The kiss fast became hungry and chaotic, with both men scrabbling at skin and clothes with fingers like claws, relentless and persistant. Jim broke away momentarily to remove his shirt then let his hands fall to begin working at the buckle of Sherlocks' belt. He felt him stiffen as he unlooped the leather strap and fumbled with the zipper of his pants but he soothed the man with a gentle massaging caress on his lower back. Once undone, he pulled down the trousers, undergarments coming with the thick black fabric, and exposed the nether regions of his former nemesis. 

There, in all it's unforseen glory, was a sight that made Jims' mouth water. Standing to attention, unrestricted by clothing and just begging to be taken into hand, his privates were a sight Jim had deigned to never see himself.

He exhaled sharply, hissing through his gritted teeth, "mine..." he whispered and dropped to his knees. Now eye level with the prize he had so needed and dreamed of for years, he placed both hands flat, palm down on Sherlocks' hips and inched forward. He gently blew onto Sherlocks' length, watching it twitch at the sensation. He stuck out his pointed tongue and softly licked a stripe up the exposed underside before taking just the head into his mouth. He bobbed slightly, languidly sucking with just enough pressure to tease. He felt a hand in his hair as Sherlock tugged at his still damp strands, urging him to take more into his mouth. He drew back and opened his mouth but did not move to take more, instead he stood up, pushing Sherlock harshly so that he landed on the bed hapharzardly. He stripped his pants, kicking them from his ankles and stared hungrily at the detective. He reached over to his beside dresser and opened the drawer, bringing out a white tube and inspecting it as Sherlock laid back, propped above the pillows by his sharp elbows.

Jim crawled onto the bed, hovering over Sherlock and moved to straddle him, knees either side of the other mans' thighs and grinned widely.

"Oh, angel, you have no idea how long I've waited for this. And for you to come to me of your own accord," he cupped Sherlocks' cheek, "makes it all the sweeter."

He smiled maniacly and closed his eyes. Yes, perfection. Just himself and his coveted prize, alone to play their own little game finally. No John, no snipers, no murder between them. Just two genius minds, alike in so many ways, with nothing stopping them from acting on their wants.

He sighed softly to himself and set to work.

Sherlock watched with bated breath as Jim uncapped the tube and poured the unmarked clear liquid, more viscid than one would have assumed, onto his fingers. He replaced the lid and dropped the lubricant onto the bed beside him. In a flash he had smeared it all over both hands and reached one behind him, one in front.

Sherlock licked his lips, dry from warm breath hazing over them as he stared at the pale man, although he found no comfort in the action as all saliva had apparently abandoned him. He swallowed dryly as Jim closed his fist around both his own and the detectives erections, moving frustratingly slowly.

Jim let his other hand roam down over his arse and inserted one slicked finger into himself. He felt the familiar burn and let it substide into a pleasant tightness before he began to move. He felt Sherlocks' breath hitch and he added another, scissoring the digits and preparing himself for the detective.

Sherlocks' back began to arch and his hands gripped and tugged at the bedcloths as he watched the criminal rut against his erection and stare at him through heavy lidded eyes.

A third finger was added and Jim bit his lip as his muscles stretched to accomodate the intrusion. He hadn't done this in a long time, a very long time. He had been subconsciously celibate since he had met Sherlock. Perhaps on some level he had denied himself sexual satisfaction of all kinds simply because it would not have been the detective doing it and anything less was pointless and boring.

But now he had Sherlock writhing impatiently beneath him, sweat beginning to form on his furrowed brow as he twisted and twitched seeking more friction from the criminals hand. 

As ready as he'd ever be, Jim relieved his hand from the duty of preparing himself and placed his sticky fingers on Sherlocks' chest, hoisting himself up by his palm and letting his member slip from his grasp. He hovered over his stilled hand and lined himself up, licking his lips as he stared at the ardent lust in Sherlocks' eyes.

He inhaled sharply and quickly, roughly, plunged down, impaling himself until Sherlock was fully sheathed inside of him. He heard the man beneath him gasp harshly and tense as he pushed down, filling himself completely.  
He shuddered, trying to ease past the intrusive burn that he hadn't experienced in years, and hissed through his teeth. He let himself relax and moved so that both his hands now rested across Sherlocks' pale chest.

"Please," he heard Sherlock whisper painfully, "move."

Obeying the request he slowly raised himself and threw himself down harshly, eliciting a soft groan from his partner. He felt his muscles burn and stretch but continued to rise and fall slowly but roughly, as though punishing them both with his movements.  
He felt nails dig into his thighs and claw at the skin, leaving red welts in their place as Sherlocks' fingers scrabbled at him, urging him onwards.

He picked up his pace and failed to supress a yelp of pleasure as he felt Sherlocks' cock hit that well hidden and heavenly spot deep inside himself. He could feel himself being lifted by Sherlocks' thrusting hips and bit back a snarl. No, he was the one in control here. This was his victory and he would retain the upper hand.

He pushed down particularly hard and heard a heady groan escape between the pants of breath the detective issued. He rose and fell, riding like he wanted it to hurt, like he wanted the violent ache and burn. Over and over he felt Sherlock hit the magnificant spot inside him and heat began to coil low in his stomach. He moaned in a high pitched voice so unlike his own that it took a second for him to realize it had come from his lips and not Sherlocks'.

He gasped loudly as a hand descended on his erection and he pounded himself into Sherlocks' hips hard enough to leave bruises both on the bones below him and on the back of his thighs where contact was made.

One, two, three strokes and light bloomed behind his closed eyes as his orgasm racked him, limbs shaking as he fought to continue his pace as liquid spurted out onto Sherlocks' chest. His muscles clenched and he felt a warm sensation as his nemesis pumped and emptied himself in harsh motions.

He allowed himself to count to five before dragging his wrecked body off of Sherlock and collapsing beside him on top of the duvet.

He listened as their breathing returned to a normal rhythm and slung his arm over Sherlocks' chest, ignoring the rapidly cooling ejaculate that clung to his skin like glue. He sighed contenedly and turned his head to find Sherlock staring at him, his eyes bright despite his body being sated and sore.

Jim raised an eyebrow as the detective quirked his lips into an undeniably genuine smile.

"This is not what I expected," he whispered to the criminal.

"Don't think this makes up for the unresponsiveness, the faux leap, the breaking and entering, the forfeit, the fifty million quid and the public relations you made me deal with." he quipped with a clenching of his fists.

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock replied, smile still etched onto his sharp face, "but does it make up for the tie?"

"No it fecking doesn't."

Sherlock began to excuse himself, explain the ordeal but Jim stopped him before he could throw himself into an argument, "hush, sleep," he said severly as he rolled into Sherlocks' side, nudging him with a knee and resting his head on his shoulder.  
Sherlock exhaled lightly and closed his eyes to rest, quickly falling into unconsciousness. From beyond the slumber he was dropping into he heard Jim whisper, "I'm still going to kill you..."


End file.
